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Plates and cups clog the kitchen sink. Empty beer bottles roll back and forth in the front yard. Dirty, sweaty clothes pile up in the laundry room. This is the life of a World Cup slob – me!

This is what the World Cup does to some men – turns them from Metrosexuals to Neanderthals. The few times I looked at myself in the mirror the past 10 days, I don’t recognize the image. The clean shave has been replaced by a prickly stubble; the eyes are bloodshot from staying up past 2 in the morning; the hair’s wild.

What’s even better (worse?) is that I don’t have to report or answer to anyone. Days before, my wife and daughters flew from Israel to California for a summer vacation.

I have the entire house to myself!

During the World Cup, other than part-time work, I don’t do much. Weeds sprout in the garden undisturbed. The sun beats down on the uncovered lawn furniture. My dog howls for attention. The trash can in the kitchen smells. Ants crawl on the countertop. The toilet bowl has many colors; white is not one of them. The towels are crunchy. The bed is unmade; the decorator pillows are on the floor. The fridge releases an echo when open.

But I’m happy.

World Cup

The Wold Cup – the celebration of football (soccer) – comes once every four years. Over 160 nations compete to be in the Wold Cup. Only 32 make it. For me, it’s not just a celebration of the beautiful game; it’s a celebration of life. Fans in the stadiums all over Brazil jump for joy, hug strangers, shed tears of victory or defeat.

For many fotballers, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. They’re at the top of their game. These superb athletes represent flag and country. They fight with the skin of their teeth. They defend, attack, score, pray, rejoice. It’s the ultimate rush.

From the comfort of my armchair at home, I cheer and heckle, watch replays of goals in slow motion, somehow feel the unbearable Brazilian heat, the cold, the humidity, thirst, exhaustion.

It’s great to hear old-timers speak of past World Cups: 1966 in London, 1970 in Mexico City, 1994 in the United States.

I AM such old-timer. As a kid, I watched a Wold Cup game in 1966, on a black-and-white TV, in a crowded cafe in Rome, with my father. I watched the 1970 Wold Cup on a giant screen at the Forum Sports Arena in Inglewood, California, again, with my father. And I watched the 1994 World Cup in Pasadena’s Rose Bowl, live, with a friend.

On the radio recently some Israeli women complained that during the World Cup they had turned into “sports widows or girlfriends.” The talk show host responded: “Listen, women, once a month, you’re unavailable for a week. Once every four years, men are unavailable.

Equal abuse for all.

The Final is almost three weeks away, but already, the World Cup in Brazil is destined to be one of the best.

Come July 14, a day after the final, I promise to shave more often, to tak out the trash, to wash, to kill ants, to clear out the fridge. But until then, I’ll remain a happy slob.

A final note from where I’m reporting: Israel did not qualify for the World Cup. But no worry — if there’s ever an accountants World Cup, I’m sure Israel will win.

Until then, Israel can only dream of reaching this event, as shown in this YouTube clip.

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Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

Ask most people what’s their favorite vacation choice and most will say: the beach. What is it about the beach that people love? The powder-white sand, the salty air, the blue waters, the warm sun on your skin are all ingredients for a good, relaxing time.

But would you ever add a lifeguard to the mix?

I spent my young adult life 1/2 a mile from the Mediterranean. I spent many years in my hometown Bat-Yam, literally translating into Daughter of the Sea, in Hebrew, or, more simply: Mermaid.

Growing up, the beach was part of our everyday lives. It was just there, for the taking. I could see the blue waters from the kitchen window, almost see sailboats near the horizon.

“Hasake” Life Boat

Some three decades later, I return to Bat Yam, to visit my aging parents, my sister, the beach.

And the lifeguards.

The lifeguards I knew as a child are long retired or they’re swimming with the fish in another universe. The lifeguards in Bat Yam are a breed all of their own. They hand over the whistle, the life vest and the hard-core training to the next generation. They command the waters. They rely on good eyesight, instinct, muscles, experience. They rely on their “Hasake,” a giant, heavy surfboard with extra-long paddles to navigate the rough waters.

They’re perched like birds in their wooden lifeguard station at the water’s edge. They peer into their binoculars to see who’s in trouble in the water. They take turns eating. And since they work long shifts, from early morning until evening, they take turns napping.

Bat Yam beach and skyline

They’re family.

June is the kick-off month for summer in Israel. Everyone’s itching to work on a bronze tan, to order coffee or a cold beer from the kiosk, to dig into a watermelon, to snooze to the sound of rushing waves.

But if you’re itching to get into the water, you’d better listen to the Bat Yam lifeguards, or else!

I’m lying on a lounge chair. It’s almost 6 in the evening. In a few minutes, the lifeguards will be off-duty. This is what I hear on the LOUD-SPEAKER, much the same as I did more than 30 years ago:

ALLO! ALLO! Yes, you there in the red swim trunks – what do you think you’re doing?!

Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re closing shop. We’re pulling the black flags from the water in five minutes. No one’s going to watch over you.

ALLO! Yes, yes, you with that funny green hat. Didn’t you hear me?

Enjoying my childhood beach in Bat Yam

Get out of the water. Yes, yes. What? You’re going deeper in the water as I’m talking to you? YOU! Don’t go macho on me. I want to go home. We all want to go home. Come out of the water now. After 6, when I’m home, you can go in all you want for all I care. You, you – get out.

Lady, lady with the one-piece bathing suit with the polka dots, yes, yes you: You found a great time to give swimming lessons to your boy. Didn’t you hear? The sea is rough. D-A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S. What don’t understand, lady with the polka dots?

Last warning, I’m going home. I wanna go home.

OUT OF THE WATER. THE SEA IS CLOSED!

The lifeguard’s “singing” is music to my ears. I fold my towel, admire the setting sun. Nothing’s changed.